Ginny and Draco Do America
by Anise
Summary: Much madness and satire of pop culture ensues when Draco, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione must drive 2,500 miles in a Honda Civic to rescue Harry from a horrible fate.
1. A Honda Civic's Too Small for the Forces...

Chapter One: A Honda Civic's Too Small For the Forces of Darkness

Zen fascists will control you  
100% natural  
You will jog for the master race  
And always wear the happy face 

Close your eyes, can't happen here  
Big Bro' on white horse is near  
The hippies won't come back you say  
Mellow out or you will pay 

California Uber Alles  
Uber Alles California   


-- Dead Kennedys,_ California Uber Alles _

"The situation's desperate," said Professor Moody. "Last ditch. We'll be down to fighting in the streets next."

"I know," Harry said brightly. "It always seems to work out that way around us, doesn't it? Well, as usual, we'll save the day. What do we need to do? Defeat Lord Voldemort with a paper clip? Fight back scores of rabid dementors by raising an eyebrow sardonically in their general direction? Build a spaceship to Mars with a piece of looseleaf paper and a stapler?"

"All in a day's work for us," yawned Ron. "It's getting rather boring, actually."

"Didn't I just say," growled Moody, "that the situation was desperate?"

"Well, what is it?" asked Hermione, fiddling with a gyroscope on a shelf and accidentally solving Einstein's problem of the integration of gravity with quantum mechanics.

"I'm down to my last gin and tonic." Moody shook out the bottom of his flask, looking into its emptiness gloomily. "Oh, and an evil force from beyond the grave kidnapped my magic eye."

"What?" exclaimed Hermione. "Oooh, that's really bad!"

Moody nodded solemnly. "It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye. Then it's just a game. Find the eye."

"It's Voldemort, of course," said Harry. 

Draco's silvery head popped into the doorjamb. "That's your answer to everything, isn't it, Potter?" he sneered. "There's a hair in your soup. The lock to your bedroom door is sticking. Mutilated bodies are mysteriously piling up just outside Gryffindor Tower. Ooh, it must be _Voldemort_!" 

Ron looked up. "Sod off to another dimension, Malfoy," he said, in a tone that could have been more polite. 

"No" mused Draco, stepping inside Moody's office, "I think I'll stay here and annoy you, Weasley. It's too easy, I should be ashamed, really. A bit like drowning baby birds, or criticizing boy bands."

"Twit," said Ron. 

"Creep," said Draco. 

"Flit."

"Neanderthal."

"Nancy-boy."

"Subhuman spawn of the Cthulhu."

"Stop it!" said Hermione impatiently. "Professor Moody, what do we have to do in order to find your magic eye?"

Moody indicated a spinning rift in the sub-space continuum, located just over the stacked washer and dryer in the corner of his office. "Have you ever noticed how one sock disappears in each load of laundry?" 

They all stared dumbly back at him. 

"At Malfoy Manor, we have legions of house-elves to do all the dirty work. I've never lifted a finger in my life," said Draco, idly examining his perfectly buffed nails. 

"Did your mother have any children that lived, Malfoy?" asked Ron.

"I know about the disappearing socks," said a small voice. It belonged to Ginny, who'd been sitting shyly at the coffee table, her homework stacked in front of her and completely hiding her face. 

"Sorry, Weasley, didn't see you," said Moody. "Never can figure out how you get overlooked all the time, since you're nearly six feet tall and have flaming red hair."

Ginny ducked her head, attempting to shrink into the smallest space possible. "I do all the laundry at home."

"So you know," said Moody, "that it's always just the one sock."

She nodded. "It gets sucked into quantum space and violates the uncertainty principle."

"Ten points to Gryffindor," said Moody. "Not that the point system may matter much anymore once the fabric of reality has been ripped beyond repair, but it's important to bash on regardless. At any rate, I took advantage of the sock paradox to build a wormhole. It uses the magiphysical principles of randomness and uncertainty in ways that should draw you towards the magic eye, wherever in the world it may be. It has already generated a parchment-" Moody waved a scroll in the air "-that should, if properly treated, reveal a set of instructions for the search. Oh, and one other thing. There's a bonus if you get killed." 

Harry started towards the whirling spiral over the dryer, which looked uncommonly like the flushing toilet in the old Ti-Dee-Bowl commercial. 

"Harry!" exclaimed Hermione. "You can't just jump into it! That's-"

But she was too late. Ron and Draco were far too busy hexing each other in the corner to pay the slightest bit of attention. Each of them had ten differently colored neon fingernails with little golden bells at their ends by the time Harry's yell echoed through the worlds while he fell through the rift. 

"I wanted to play hopscotch with the impenetrable mystery of existence," sighed Moody heavily, "but _he_ stepped in a wormhole and_ had_ to go in early. Damn you, Potter, this square-jawed-Tom-Cruise-hero bit does get tiresome, sometimes--" The professor tried to grab at the edge of Harry's cloak. The spinning circle widened a bit and enveloped Moody as well. 

Ron, Hermione, Draco, and Ginny stared at each other. 

"Oh dear," said Hermione. "Harry isn't exactly dense, but he's not a pillar of lucid thought either."

"This isn't good," agreed Ron. "He's the hero who saves the day. We're merely the sidekicks. I provide comic relief, and you say clever things and take care of the exposition. What do we do now?"

"If we only had that parchment," sighed Hermione.

Ginny gave it to her. "I got it from Professor Moody before he was sucked into the wormhole," she whispered. 

"Good job, Gin," her brother said vaguely, peering at it. "Now go off and play with Barbies or something; we're busy."

"It's blank," said Hermione. She tapped it with her wand, muttering Revealing spells. "Ooh, I know what it is." Her face fell. "It can only be seen with a potion brewed at the dark of the moon in the heart of the Forbidden Forest under the tenth leaf of the fifth branch of the oldest larch tree while watching a rerun of 'Monty Python.' I'm no good at potions." 

Ron shook his head. "Me neither." Ginny made a negative motion with her shoulders. 

"Well, well, well," drawled Draco, sauntering up to the table. "Looks like someone's input is needed after all."

"If you think you can upstage us by revealing the parchment's arcane secrets with a cursed forbidden brew from the Dark Arts-" began Hermione. 

Draco took the parchment from her and turned it over. "Writing's on this side."

"Oh," said Hermione in a tiny voice. 

Ginny laughed out loud, throwing her head back. They all turned to stare at her. "Sorry," she mumbled. Draco's eyes lingered on the little tendrils of hair that had escaped from the severe braid at the nape of her neck. He pictured her hair unbound, tumbling about her as they laughed and romped in a field of flowers, running, holding hands, sappy music playing from some mysterious source and vaseline hopelessly smeared over the camera lense-- No, no. He shook himself. The powers of ultimate evil he had sworn to serve did tend to rather look down on that sort of thing. 

"I can't make this out at all," said Ron. "Apparently it's some sort of incredibly complicated spell cast by a wizard named 'Hertz Rent-a-Car.'"

Ginny cleared her throat. "It's a claim check for a Honda Civic." 

"How do you know that?" her brother demanded. 

"Dad was fascinated by car rental agencies last summer and collected receipts by the bagful. You weren't paying much attention."

"Oh. Right." Ron suddenly seemed inordinately fascinated by the skull and crossbones pattern on the wallpaper. 

"That was the summer Fred and George turned him into a Mexican Hissing Cockroach," Ginny whispered to no-one in particular; or then again, it might have been to Draco, who was looking intently into her big golden eyes.

"That only lasted for a day or so!" protested Ron. 

"Three months," said Ginny sotto voce. 

"It did _not_-stop humming _La Cucharacha_, Malfoy!"

"We don't have any time to waste," said Hermione. "We've got to go through that wormhole right away." She grabbed Ron's hand. He immediately turned at least a dozen slightly differing shades of red. 

"What about us?" asked Ginny, her voice louder now. 

"Us?" growled Ron. "First of all, you're not going because it's too dangerous. Second of all, Malfoy's not going because I would prefer being draped with beef jerky and dropped into a pit of starving wolverines to traveling anywhere with him." 

"It's this or another summer at Malfoy Manor," muttered Draco. "I think I'd take the wolverines, too."

"The world's smallest violin is playing, 'My Heart Pumps Purple Piss For You,'" said Ron sarcastically (which, come to think of it, has been determined by the Grammar and Intonation Police to be the only way in which that particular sentence _can_ be said.) He turned to Hermione. "Let's go."

Ginny bit her lip. Her hands tensed. She leaped up from her chair and grabbed the parchment from her brother's hand. "Here-what are you doing?" yelled Ron. "Give that back!" Ginny shook her head and started through the wormhole, pulling Draco with her by the other hand. 

"My, my, but you're full of surprises, Weasley," he said to her. "I never would have guessed. Or perhaps I should've. McGonagall never did figure out who mooned all the first-years' from the Astronomy Tower on the opening day of term; tell me, was that you?"

Ginny glanced back. "Damn," she said. "We haven't lost them." 

The four whirled through a tunnel-shaped dislocation of time, space, and reality. It was rather reminiscent of the exquisite imagery during the extended sequence at the end of Kubrick's_ 2001: A Space Odyssey_. Or perhaps it had more in common with the nightmares one is generally plagued by after eating three pints of Phish Food Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream with a side of a deep-fried Snickers bar at three in the morning. At any rate, the ground rushed up towards them with sickening speed, and they tumbled, as one, into a green clearing in a forest. 

Ron sat up and rubbed dirt all over his nose. Hermione made a tsking sound with her tongue, spit on a handkerchief she pulled from her robes, and started scrubbing his face with it. 

"Oh, stop it, 'Mione, do-- that's what Mum would always do just before we went to the coven gathering on Walpurgisnacht, when she'd bring the potato-crisp-tuna casserole--"

"Way to create romance, Hermione," she sighed to herself, tucking the handkerchief away. 

"What?" 

"Nothing-- nothing--" She glanced from side to side. "Where on earth are we?"

The land was green and lush, and tall trees towered on either side of them. Draco was sitting up and talking to Ginny in a low voice, brushing her hair back from her forehead. Ron growled something incoherent low in his throat. 

"You've got a huge piece of mud hanging right off your nose, Weasley," drawled Draco. "Looks like a perfectly enormous bogey. Here, right there--"

"Don't touch me!" Ron glared at Draco. "Don't ever touch me!"

"_Someone_ hasn't taken their happy pills today," the blond boy observed snidely. 

"Where are we?" whispered Ginny. 

"Look." Hermione raised a trembling hand towards a huge sign, almost obscured by a large group of Japanese tourists who were slowly advancing on the four of them with little bows, brandishing tremendously complicated cameras that would have made Colin Creevey drool in ecstasy. "The Santa Cruz Mystery Spot," she read. 

"Ooh, I don't understand," moaned Ron. 

The sound of snapping and clicking grew louder and louder. The tourists poked one another and giggled. Several started posing next to Ron and fingering Draco's silvery hair wonderingly. One small group wouldn't stop feeling the material of Hermione's robes.

"Hey-- stop it! Stop! Now that's definitely a bad touch!" Hermione slapped their hands away, but there were simply too many of them, and now they were starting to undo Ginny's braid and pull out strands of her red-gold hair for souvenirs; her lips trembled and she wrapped her arms around herself, the situation looked desperate--

A legion of elves descended down on them from the hills, floating just above the earth, dressed in robes of shining green. an unearthly glow on their faces. Their hair was long and blond, and they all bore an uncanny resemblance to Orlando Bloom's portrayal of Legolas in _The Lord of the Rings_. They had long knives and quivers of arrows at their belts, except for one at the back who carried a surfboard. The tourists all stopped what they were doing and stared vacantly in front of them. One by one, they filed back to their tour bus. 

"The_ Quenya _have come to save us, the high-elves of song and legend!" gasped Hermione. 

The lead elf stopped in front of her, filled with majesty and beauty beyond the like of the children of men. They all felt the power that was in him, a power that reached past time and space into the eternal dimensions of Middle- Earth and beyond. He opened his otherworldly mouth.

"How's it hanging, dudes," he said gravely. "Good thing we found you. We were just headed out to catch some tasty waves." He held out a lit joint. "Want a hit?"

They all stared at him. 

"But you're elves," breathed Hermione. "You're supposed to be frolicking through the forest with harps and singing ancient lays." 

All the elves snickered at her last word. 

"Times change," the lead elf shrugged. "We hang out, tell fortunes, surf, run the local Renaissance Festival--"

Draco stepped forward. 

"My man!" one of the elves exclaimed. "Gimme some skin."

Dracowasn't the least bit sure of what had just been communicated, but he jammed his hands behind his back as quickly as he could. 

The elf shook his head. "Hopelessly uptight. You need your chakras cleansed, dude. "

"I'll bet they haven't even had their house _feng shui_'ed yet," added another elf. 

"They need Zen meditation."

"Herbal cleansing."

"A Pilates class."

"A high colonic."

"If you've quite done figuring out what's wrong with us," Draco said coldly. The head elf moved forward again, and Ron, who was standing closest to him, backed off. 

"No touching please, we're British," he said in a strangled voice. 

"Please," said Ginny, plucking up all her courage, "if you could just tell us-- where _are_ we?"

The elves stared at her in amazement.

"You mean you don't know?" the head elf asked. 

"If she knew, would she be asking you?" Draco snapped. 

The elf made a downward motion with his hand, which they could all now see was tattooed with henna. "Chill, dude. You're in California."

Ron, Ginny, and Draco all looked blank. But Hermione gave a little squeak. 

"Oooh, I've _heard_ of this place!" she moaned in terror. "I've watched imported American television programmes! They're all absolutely mad! They run about with guns and live in twenty-two minute segments with commercial breaks! Theme music follows them everywhere! We'll never get out alive!" 

Unconsciously, Draco stepped closer to Ginny. Unfortunately, that also meant that he moved closer to Ron, who pulled his wand from his robes and growled, "_Galerus Saltatus_!" This was an extraordinarily unpleasant spell which forced its unlucky victims to perform the Mexican Hat Dance for thirty-six hours on end while yelling "Olé!" at intervals, and it would probably have led to no end of unpleasantness. However, nothing happened. Ron gave his wand a stricken look. 

"You guys didn't pass through magical customs, did you?" the elf asked shrewdly. 

"No," mumbled Ron. "We came through a wormhole that propelled us past time and space."

"Good way to avoid airline food," said the elf. "But it means your wands don't work."

"Oh, no," whimpered Hermione. 

"We'll have to survive by our wits alone," said Ron. 

"That's it. We're dead," said Draco. 

Ginny threw back her head and laughed. Her pearly white teeth gleamed in the bright sunlight, and her full pink lips parted. Draco had a sudden vision of pulling her into a long passionate kiss until she moaned and writhed beneath him, begged him to rip her robes from her body in shreds, and--

"Ahem," said Hermione. 

He suddenly realized that all the elves were staring at him and tittering behind their hands. Then he remembered that he'd unbuttoned his robes in the warm California air and was wearing only a T-shirt and a pair of very tight shorts beneath them. 

"I've gone blind," said Ron, covering his eyes. 

An hour later, they were standing next to a white Honda Civic in the parking lot of Hertz Rent-A-Car. Ron kept eyeing the automobile suspiciously.

"For heaven's sake, Ron," said Ginny with unusual spirit, "it's not going to bite you."

"I'm not so sure," her brother said, examining the grill. 

"Dad's brought cars home loads of times. Remember the Chrysler minivan?"

"Yeah, all the other wizards teased him no end about that one."

"What about the time you and Harry took that flying car to Hogwarts?" Ginny's voice broke into the octave above high C when she said Harry's name, but Ron didn't seem to notice. 

"That was almost five years ago, Gin. I just never paid much attention to any of the cars." 

"Well, maybe you should have!"

Ron's eyes widened. "What's gotten into you, Ginny?" Then a realization seemed to hit him. "If we can't use our wands-- and we can't do magic-- oh no! That means I can't--"

"What?" asked his sister. 

He closed his mouth with a shut. "Nothing! Never mind!"

Hermione eyed them thoughtfully. "Now I wonder what _that_ was all about..."

"So you understand what to do?" asked the elf. 

"I think so," said Hermione doubtfully. "We drive to our next destination, which is Santa Monica. There, we'll meet a wizard who'll give us our next set of directions. Seems simple enough."

"Right then," said Ron briskly. "Into the car. _You_-- and _you_-- and--" He held up a hand to bar Draco from getting into the Honda. "_Not_ you."

"Oh,_ really_," sneered Draco. "And just what do you think you're doing?"

"Leaving you in a Hertz Rent-A-Car parking lot in Santa Cruz, California."

"You're mad, Weasley. I always knew it. At least _Potter_ has two brain cells to rub together, but_ you_--"

Ginny caught at her brother's arm. "You can't simply leave Dr-- I mean, Malfoy here, Ron. We're thousands of miles from home. Where is he supposed to go?"

"Isn't there an ocean here or something?" Ron asked rhetorically (or considering his grade on the previous term's _Muggle Geography_, perhaps the question wasn't rhetorical after all.) "He can go live on the beach. He can dig with his little shovel and pail. He can eat sand for all I care! But one thing he's not going to do is get in this car and ride God only knows how far with my friend, my sister, and especially _me_."

"What did you mean by that last crack, Weasley?"

"Isn't it obvious, Malfoy?"

"Oh, please, don't argue," begged Ginny. 

Draco looked at her in a distinctly dewey-eyed way. "If you don't want to me to, I won't," he said. The forces of evil gave a collective groan. 

Ron yawned. 

"I don't understand," Hermione said suspiciously. "Why aren't you more upset that Malfoy's talking to your sister that way?"

"Don't be stupid, Hermione," Ron said impatiently. "Isn't it obvious that he's--"

"Gay and happy and free are we,

We roam through the forest so wild and free!

At laws and customs we do scoff, 

On Fridays palm readings are twenty percent off," sang the elves as they trooped away. 

"Well, I finally did hear the elves sing," said Hermione. "I suppose that's something to tell my children someday. " She looked at Ron, who was trying, with remarkable lack of success, to stuff Draco into a garbage can that read "Santa Cruz Recycles-- It's Good Karma." "Look, have you thought about one little problem?" she asked. 

"What?" yelled Ron as the blond boy pushed his head into the TypeIV-NBCZ plastics again. (Saran Wrap used for less than one hour on all-organic wheatgrass salads.) 

"Does anyone know how to drive this car?"

Silence. Then:

"Uh-oh," said Ron. 

Draco leaned back, crossed his arms, and smirked. "Well, well, well. It's _nice_ to feel needed."

"_You_ know how to drive?" Ron asked, his mouth agape. 

"My mother gave me secret lessons last summer," said Draco. "We'd sneak past the rabid wolverines at the front gate of Malfoy Manor to the driving centre... she's not a bad sort, really, is Mum."

"We have to take him," Hermione said flatly. 

"I'd rather be dipped in honey and thrown to the flobberworms," said Ron. 

"You're going to have to ask him."

Ron was silent. 

"If we don't find Moody's eye... and Moody... and Harry... we're stuck here."

Ron glanced at the tie-dyed hippie denizens of Santa Cruz moving around him, and gulped. "I could stand it," he said in a strangled voice, "if they didn't expect you to get in touch with your _feelings_. Alright. I'll do it! I'd rather be impaled on the branches of the Whomping Willow, but I'll do it." He shuffled forward. 

"Malfoy, wouldjacomewitus," he asked his feet in a very unenthusiastic way. 

Draco lifted an eyebrow. "I didn't quite catch that."

Ron lifted his head a bit more. "Would you come with us," he repeated in a monotone. 

"I didn't hear the magic word," Draco said pleasantly. 

"Please," Ron spat.

"With whipped cream?"

"Okay."

"And a cherry on top?"

"Yes!"

"So I get to sit next to Ginny the whole trip?" purred Draco, looking at Ron slyly. 

"Oh!" Ron looked startled. "I suppose. If you want to. But you're not sitting next to _me_!"

"Hmmm..." Draco seemed to ponder this. "Could you please state that in the form of a desperate cry to God to   
save you from an unholy death?" 

"Malfoy--"

"Alright, alright." Draco held up a long, slender hand. "Let's go."

Ginny, in the front seat, sipped at one of the Diet Cokes they'd gotten from a machine in the parking lot. Draco smiled at her, uncertainly, almost shyly. Oops! The Honda Civic missed the rear bumper of the Geo Metro in front of it by perhaps half a millimetre. Perhaps it would be a good idea to keep his eyes on the road, for the moment. He was used to sneering and smirking, operations which were generally associated with wielding the power of life and death over menials, house-elves, and random Muggles that Father would bring into the house to torture over the Christmas holidays as he tried to do his homework in the next room , but a smile... ah, that was something different. He cleared his throat. 

"Do you like that? Is it good?" He indicated the aluminium can. 

Ginny rolled a mouthful around her teeth. "Actually, it tastes rather like malted battery acid. But you know, I'm getting used to it." 

"I'll get you oceans of Diet Coke if you want them," he said impulsively. 

"You know, I always thought you were the embodiment of pure evil."

"Funny," said Draco. "Mother used to say that was Barry Manilow."

"Well, you're not." Ginny gave him a heartbreaking smile. "You're rather sweet."

There were a few moments of silence. Then, from the back seat:

"Are we there yet?" asked Ron. 

Hermione sighed and pulled a folded atlas from the side pocket of the car door. "You don't really understand just how big this country is, do you?"

Ron looked at the atlas, furrowing his brow. "Well, it's about as large as our part of England, isn't it? I mean Hogwarts to Ottery-St. Catchpole, maybe including King's Cross."

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

"Well, you do realize that those are the only places I've ever been in my life!"

She unrolled the atlas with a snap, and it cascaded over the back seat. Underneath, she moved a little closer to him. "Let me explain a few things," she said. 

The car pulled out onto Highway 68, towards Carmel and the long, winding Highway One that would lead them along the coast to the sprawling monstropolis that was Los Angeles. And towards the mystery that awaited them. Indeed, one might say that they were riding in a mystery machine towards an enigma that must be solved. It was a great pity that only Hermione had ever seen American television, or they could all have joined in a rousing chorus of the original theme song to _Scooby Doo, Where Are You?, _for it would have been highly appropriate. 

A/N: More chapters coming very soon! Please tell me in your review if you'd like to be on my mailing list, to receive chapter updates on this story, my OTHER story on fanfiction.net, special cookies, and more! 


	2. Santa Monica Boulevard Boys Er, Wizards

Chapter Two: Santa Monica Boulevard Boys-- Er, Wizards

Rollin' down the Imperial Highway   
With a big nasty redhead at my side   
Santa Ana winds blowin' hot from the north   
And we was born to ride 

From the South Bay to the Valley   
From the West Side to the East Side   
Everybody's very happy   
'Cause the sun is shining all the time   
Looks like another perfect day 

I love L.A. 

--Randy Newman, _I Love L.A._

If you recognize it as JKR's, it's hers; the rest is all satire. 

_A/N: _Thanks to all the reviewers!! Esp. Evil Slytherin Child, Elvengoddess, Cessa, Ravenblack, and Dannie7_. _If you've ever been in a car driving too fast down Highway One, you know _exactly_ how Ron felt. Yes, you really can see circles of sea lions from the road along the California coast. 

_"Ooh," _Ron groaned from the back seat of the Honda Civic, holding his stomach. 

"Everything going swimmingly back there?" Draco asked cheerfully. They had left Monterey and were heading towards Santa Barbara on Highway One along the California coast. The little car swooped up and down the twisty, turny road. The sun was shining on the Pacific waves far below them over the crags of rock, and the cries of seagulls filled the warm air. 

"What are you so happy about?" Ron spat, falling back into Hermione's lap as if the effort of speaking had been too much for him. 

"I'm getting a chance to torture you, and also perform a useful activity," smirked Draco. Then he saw Ginny's face. "Er-- sorry, Gin-- I mean, Weasley." 

"Did I just hear the word 'sorry' pass the lips of Draco Malfoy?" Hermione asked incredulously. "That's it. Judgment Trump is at hand. Soon we'll be seeing the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse."

"Oh, stuff it, Granger. I don't know, I just don't feel up to my usual level of sheer rottenness today." 

"Be that as it may, if you start humming 'Sunshine Day' by the Partridge Family, I will smack you," said Hermione. She turned back to the near-comatose redhead in her lap. "Ron, do you think you could eat some chocolate?"

"Food-- don't-- mention--" Ron moaned. 

Draco glanced over his shoulder and pulled into the parking lot of a rest stop. Unfortunately, this occurred as the car was going ninety miles an hour, which led to impressive skid marks. He wondered what the odd music that suddenly appeared in the background might mean, the one that was insistently pounding out a guitar beat that sounded like "wokka-chukka, wokka-chukka," but then the car came to a halt and so did the strange sounds. "You didn't get any blood on the upholstery, did you?" he asked impatiently over the moans and wails from the back seat. 

"I think if we all jump Malfoy together, we could get him in the boot and leave him there," said Ron in a very weak voice. 

"Another car was following us, Weasley," Draco said. "A little red one with no top. I didn't like the looks of it, and I was trying to shake it."

"Other people are allowed to use the road when you're driving on it, Malfoy," said Ron. "I realize that this must sound like a strange concept to you, since you're used to having the land cleared of all visible serfs whenever you deign to step onto it."

"You must be feeling better," remarked Hermione. "Out!" 

Ron let himself be dazedly led to a vending machine and fed a stream of Hershey bars by Hermione. Draco and Ginny walked up to a rock outcropping overlooking the ocean. He wanted to take her hand, but felt rather awkward about the idea. After all, until four hours ago he'd been the sworn mortal enemy of her family and friends. He stole a sideways glance at the strands of her hair that had escaped from the tight braid and were blowing loose in the wind. 

"Aren't those robes dreadfully hot?" he asked. "Why don't you take them off?"

She jumped slightly. "Er-- no! No, I don't think I will." Ginny hugged her arm tightly over her chest. 

They stood looking out at the ocean. Ginny's face seemed to betray a deep inner conflict, rather similar to the one drivers on the San Joaquin tollway might feel as they ponder whether or not to gun the accelerator through right after the last car and avoid paying ninety-five cents. She bit her lip. But then Draco saw something on the beach far below, and he did grab her hand, pointing.

"Look, look!"

Ginny's eyes widened. Lying on the beach was a circle of sea lions. 

"They're so beautiful," she breathed. "Oh, there's a little baby one-- now it's being cuddled by its mum-- now it's swimming--" Her eyes were alight with wonder, her soft pink lips were slightly parted, and a sudden gust of wind molded her robes to her body in a most suggestive fashion. Being not only the official Heir to the Evil Empire (TM) but also a hormone-crazed horndog of a seventeen-year-old boy, Draco pounced.

For a heartstopping moment, she leaned into his kiss, opening her mouth to him and letting him press her back against the trunk of a redwood tree. The pounding of their hearts very nearly drowned out the inexplicable but quite distinct voice of Elvis singing "I'm just a hunka hunka burnin' love!" in the background. 

"Ahem!" said the voice of Hermione. 

The music stopped. They looked at her. 

"Jealous because you aren't getting any, Granger?" drawled Draco. 

Ginny hurriedly backed away, removing Draco's hands from beneath her robes. "We really should be going," she mumbled, turning scarlet. 

"So it's like that, is it?" he asked angrily. 

"Think of it this way, Malfoy," Hermione said snidely. "You're all alone in the gas station of love, and you have to use the self-service pumps."

Ginny sniffled miserably. Draco refused to look at her. _Little tease_! he thought savagely. Sod it all anyway, he was supposed to be pure, sheer, unadulterated evil, no artificial flavorings or preservatives, absolutely guaranteed to be free of altruistic impulses and FD&C Red #5. So where had all this sunshiny happiness come from? It must be a trap with Ginny as the bait. Well, he wouldn't fall into it! Draco gritted his teeth and thought about his latest meeting with Lord Voldemort in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. 

"You must join with me, young Malfoy... join with me..." the dark lord had murmured from snakelike lips, his red eyes glowing. 

"What exactly is in it for me again?" Draco asked. 

"Unlimited power over time, space, and reality. Provided we win the war, of course."

"Yes, there's always that... I don't suppose they taught Muggle History in your day at Hogwarts, but do the words 'Confederate War Bonds' mean anything to you?"

"There's more," wheedled Voldemort. 

"What else?"

"The Powers of Darkness, Ltd. just got word from Skywalker Ranch. Do the words 'You could assume the actual identity of the Dark Lord of the Sith, as revealed in the third film if Lucas can ever get together on the merchandising rights with Gringotts' mean anything to_ you_?"

Draco licked his suddenly dry lips. "My Lord, you have discovered my deepest, darkest secret! I'm a closet Star Wars geek." He knelt on the dirt floor, wishing Father would remember to install shag carpet down here. "I am yours, mind, body, and soul. Well, maybe not the 'body' part; that's quite disturbing, actually."

"Yet the fan fiction exists," said Voldemort with a shudder. 

Draco grimaced. "And they say _we're_ evil."

"Ron, wake up," Hermione whispered urgently once they were back on the road. 

"Whazzat?" he mumbled, his eyes closed. 

"I just saw Malfoy and Ginny... well, um..."

"Can't this wait until I've managed to pull myself back from the jaws of horrible death?" he moaned. 

"Really, Ron, it's just carsickness! I'm trying to tell you about Draco Malfoy, the unholy spawn of Satan, and your sweet, innocent, wide-eyed little sister, who were--"

"I wouldn't worry about that." Ron opened one eye a crack. "Say, he didn't try to touch me while I was lying unconscious on the cement floor of that rest stop in Lompoc, did he?"

"Ron! Honestly! Why aren't you more worried about him and Ginny?"

"Really, Hermione, how on earth can you not see that Malfoy's obviously--"

"Bent," said Ginny. "The latch to the boot on this car is hopelessly bent. We'll never get our deposit back."

"Who cares!" said Ron. "I'm never going to make it to Santa Monica in the first place."

"We ought to throw you out the window," said Draco. "Might make better time if we did."

"I was mad to think that you were even capable of behaving like a decent human being, Malfoy," said Ginny. 

Draco pondered what she'd said for a moment, and then his temper snapped like a perished rubber band. "That's right! I'm unrepentantly evil and that's how I like it! Evil, evil, evil, do you hear me? I steal lollipops from babies! I don't return recyclables! When traveling by the tube in London, I don't 'mind the gap!' Oh, and I'm allied with Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters, who are planning to take each and every one of you and shave off your skin with rusty razor blades."

"Is it too late to leave him on the beach?" asked Ron. 

Draco gunned the accelerator, and the little car lurched around a bend in a most alarming way. "Do you want to go *faster*? Raise your hand if you want to go *faster*!"

"That's it!" Ginny scrambled over to the driver's side of the car, slammed on the brake, and pushed Draco out the door. Then she settled into the driver's seat herself. "I'm taking over this car from now on."

Draco glared at her in a way that had made basilisks turn tail and run. Ginny glared right back. 

"Now, you can either be a stupid git," she said, "or you can get in this car and shut up. Which is it going to be?"

She _was_ beautiful when she was angry, Draco thought reluctantly. He muttered something incoherent. 

"What was that?"

"I said I'd play nice from now on."

"All right then. Oh, and another thing." Ginny turned around in the seat. "As punishment, you have to ride behind Hermione. And she's putting the front seat _all the way back_."

Draco groaned, but was forced to admit-- silently, of course-- that few things were a greater punishment for one's alliance with ultimate nastiness than riding in the back seat of a Honda Civic. 

Ron's carsickness dissipated as they passed Port Hueneme and the road straightened out. He sat up and narrowed his eyes at Draco. With a Magic Marker that had been rolling around on the floor of the car, he drew a red line down the middle of upholstery of the back seat. "This is _your_ side," he said in venomous tones. "This is _my_ side. Don't let so much as one speck of your evil little self slop over onto _my_ side, and we may both reach Santa Monica alive." 

"I wouldn't count on that, Weasley," Draco said pleasantly. His fingers scuttled over to touch the edge of the red line. 

"_Don't do that_," hissed Ron. 

"Let your fingers do the walking, now where did I hear that?" Draco mused. 

"Stop it!" squeaked Ron as Draco's hand came closer. "Hermione, make him stop!"

"I'm not touching you--- hmm-- is this bothering you? I'm still not touching you." 

"_Malfoy_," said Hermione in a warning tone, moving the seat further back still. 

Draco assumed an expression of extreme innocence and busied himself with looking out the window at the palm trees. 

"Ooh, what beautiful beaches," said Ginny, wide-eyed. "I wonder, is it warm enough to bathe in the ocean here?"

"We don't have time," Hermione said impatiently. "We're supposed to meet the wizards on the beach at two o'clock." The car passed through the green archway labeled "Santa Monica Harbor: Fishing and Boating," and Ginny pulled into a parking space. 

Ron looked out over the sea of cars in a hopeless way. "How are we ever going to find this Honda thing again?"

Hermione studied the sign affixed to a lamppost. "It says here that we're in the Itchy lot. Come on." 

The sun beat down relentlessly. A group of girls wearing lycra tube tops and low-slung jeans that showed their thong underwear all looked at the four British teenagers strangely. "That is _weird_," one of them observed. "But look at the high H.F," another agreed, and they all giggled. "Amp down, girl!

"I can't take it anymore," sighed Ron. "Hermione, give me that money charm you found under the seat cushions." Hermione handed him the Visa gold card, a dubious look on her face. She looked wistfully after Ron as he disappeared into the T-shirt stand. 

"' 'I Just Do What The Voices Inside My Head Tell Me To Do,'" Draco read aloud from a T-shirt displayed in the window. "Hmm, that's simply a statement of fact. Wonder why the forces of ultimate evil are talking to all the Muggles, though. Maybe they deserve more credit than I've been giving them." Silently, he pondered the question of whether they, too, had consistently been getting the message "Smile! It's a happy sunshiny zippadeedoodah kinda day!" for several hours on end, as he had. Of course, he didn't really know what the _modus operandi_ of the forces of ultimate evil might be in Southern California. 

Ginny leaned against a lamppost with a gull sitting on it, wiping her sweat-beaded forehead. "I think I'm dying of heatstroke," she said to no-one in particular. 

"Are you _sure_ you want to keep wearing those full-length wool robes?" he asked her, sotto voce. 

"Yes!" she snapped, looking daggers at him. 

Luckily, Ron returned at that instant, and his sister, friend, and sworn blood enemy were all too busy gaping at him in shock to really think about much of anything else. 

"Ron," Hermione said at last. "You're not going out in public like that, are you?"

Draco was, of course, far from conversant with Muggle fashions. Yet he prided himself on possessing a keen sense of style, and he instinctively felt that a hot pink T-shirt bearing the legend "I'm With Stupid" was never meant to be worn over green lycra shorts imprinted with purple palm trees. Ginny, meanwhile, was snickering behind her hands and attempting to hide it by coughing. 

"What?" Ron said defensively. "This is Muggle clothing! I just bought it at a Muggle shop."

"But of course," drawled Draco. "You look simply divine, Weasley."

Ron's face turned a shade of pink that very nearly matched the T-shirt. "Don't even think about it, you--"

"Queer, don't you think?" Hermione asked thoughtfully. "That wizards would be playing beach volleyball?"

Yet they undoubtedly were. Three to a side, they served, spiked, passed, and blocked, their muscular tanned bodies gleaming in the sun. Their wands were secured in little holsters attached to their extremely brief shorts, and they all wore beach flip-flops. 

"Hermione!" Ron nudged her in the ribs. "Stop drooling. And you," he growled at his sister, "quit licking your lips right now. Don't make me chain you to my wrist again." He looked with approval at the manly, muscled men playing volleyball. "Now that's what I like to see," he said. "Good, healthy, thoroughly masculine outdoor sports." 

A ball went under the net, and a particularly muscular wizard dove for it, skidding into the legs of a shorter, thinner player on the other side. 

"Personal foul!" screeched the player. 

"You wish it was personal, bitch." The wizard sprawled on the sand glared up at him. 

"Castro clone."

"Barbie."

"Cake boy."

"Light in the loafers."

"San Francisco Accent."

"Miss Thing."

"Nice to see you finally recognize it." The second player preened slightly, running a hand through his suspiciously blond hair. "I am the one and only Miss Fine Thing."He put one hand to his hip, which he rotated in a circular motion, making an indistinct "mm-mm-mm" noise. Then he gave a long, long sigh. "Goddamnit, but this is really exhausting."

The other wizard wiped his brow. "How much longer do we have to keep it up?"

The second player consulted his watch. "Seven hours."

"I don't know if I can make it-- _hey_!" The wizard looked up, saw Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny staring at him, and sashayed over to them. "_You _must be those British students we've been_ waiting _for! I'm Todd, and this is David!" He glanced at Ron. "Is he about to have an apoplectic fit?"

"I'm afraid so," said Hermione apologetically, struggling to hold Ron back from diving into the ocean facefirst. "He's a little-- well-- you see, he's lived rather a sheltered life, and--"

"I understand, honey," the wizard said sympathetically, patting her hand. He peered at the roll of parchment she held out to him. "Says here to get on Highway 10 and start driving east until you hit Pheonix, Arizona." He looked dubiously at her black robes. "Who designed those, baby?"

"A twelfth-century Irish witch named Fiona the Fashion-Impaired, I think," Hermione said glumly. "Supposedly, they were quite the thing at the court of King Henry IV."

"You can't wear them while driving through the desert. You'll _die._ And you won't leave a good-looking corpse." Todd clapped his hands together. " I know what we're going to do."

"What?" asked Ginny. She'd been quiet so far, but with her brother under restraint, she pushed her hair aside far enough to reveal one eye. A beautiful eye, too, thought Draco, huge and pure as a bottomless well of clover honey; he could drown in the sweet magical depths of her eyes and never, never come back to the surface, content to endlessly swim through the wonder that was Ginny, and--

"_Where_ is that horrible sappy music_ coming_ from?" exclaimed Hermione.

"Haven't you noticed?" shrugged Todd. "Wizards and witches are always followed by theme music in Southern California. It's in our contracts. _Any_way." He put a hand on Hermione and Ginny's shoulders and grinned at them consipiratorially. "How would you girls feel about... _makeovers_?"

"Oohhh," they sighed in rapturous unison. 

"But what about Ron?" asked Hermione. 

"He doesn't seem to be makeover material," Todd admitted. "We'll send him off for a couple of hours with Butch, how's that?"

"Does he have to come back?" asked Ginny. 

Hermione's mouth dropped open in shock. "I thought you were a loving little sister!"

Ginny looked down at the sand. "I _am_," she said. "I'm sweet and shy and sheltered and naive-- It's just that-- oh, I don't know! I've felt strange ever since I got here. Not like myself at all."

"Maybe you're finally getting in touch with your inner bitch," said Todd musingly. 

"Help," came a weak voice from the direction of the sand volleyball court. It came from Draco, who had been backed up against the net by several shirtless wizards. 

"Hmm, did I just hear something?" said Hermione. "I could have sworn that it was Draco Malfoy asking for help. But that's impossible, so I suppose I didn't really hear anything."

"I know I've been an insufferably evil git, but they're asking me what my sign is. Don't leave me here," said Draco pleadingly. `

Todd and David both looked at Draco with glazed eyes. "_The possibilities_," they chorused. 

"Next stop," David said, "Sister Innocentia's House of Style on Santa Monica Boulevard." 

Review! Review! More to come. :)


	3. Draco, the Village People's Avatar

Chapter Three: Draco, the Village People's Avatar

All I wanna do is have some fun

And I've got the feeling I'm not the only one

All I wanna do is have some fun

Till the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard 

--_All I Wanna Do_, Sheryl Crow

A/N: Kevyn Aucoin is the makeup artist who wrote all those books (like "Face Forward") and recently died; Todd isn't over it yet. The "Needles" David refers to is Needles, California, in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Helmut Lang is a designer. Manalo is an insanely expensive brand of shoe. I'm not sure if they make mens' shoes, but let's assume they do, shall we? "Plus fours" are pants that are an extra four inches long in the cuff because of... I forget exactly why, some upper-class golf thing, I think. LAX is the L.A. airport. 

A great big thank you goes out to all my reviewers! Especially Queen of the Rogue, Katja, Agujitayuppi, Kayla Snape, Joyce, Peeler, Lavinia, Daydreamer1585, Ali Marie, Fortune Cookie, VampyRockster, Adaren, Chocagirl23, Gin the Gemini, Arca, Whitney Malfoy, Taricorim, Nebula Queen, Magickfan47, Kuroneko Kashikoi, and KitLee. I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter out! But I've been making films and writing my angsty epic, "Jewel of the Harem." I would never say that's easy to write, but it's easier in a way than something long and funny. It's like they say-- dying is easy, comedy is hard. 

"The thing is," sighed Ron, "that I always felt responsible for Ginny. You know what my first memory is? That incident with the escaped Hungarian Horntail in our backyard when she was five. When you start out slaying dragons for your sister, well, you do tend to get a bit overprotective--" He chewed the last few bites of his Big Mac. "God, this is bloody awful, but I can't seem to stop _eating_ it-- are you going to finish those?" Butch shrugged and shoved over the remainder of his SuperSize fries. "What is this place, anyway? Does Ronald McDonald run some sort of American School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? I saw a sign for McDonald's University on the way in--"

"Not exactly, lemme see if I can explain." Butch drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thinking. They were sitting in a secluded back room of the McDonald's on Santa Monica Boulevard. "It's the California division of the American decompression chambers," the American wizard finally said. "Visiting wizards and witches from Europe usually come out here, y'know? Every state has one. Started in 1978. What led to it was an incident where a Nigel Faargefruham from Flummery St. Oddment's was met by Est wizards at LAX, taken on an encounter weekend, and encouraged to get in touch with his feelings in a redwood hot tub. He flipped out-- couldn't handle it. He was last seen during the Carter administration in a polyester leisure suit with seventy-eight gold chains around his neck, doing the Hustle and yelling 'I will survive! I will survive! As long as I know how to live, I know I'll stay alive!'"

"Wow. That's awful," said Ron faintly. He finished the fries and started on the paper box without noticing the slightest difference in taste.

"Oh, that was cool. He ended up opening a gay bed and breakfast in West L.A. in the end-- The point is, we get the wizards here, sit them down in a nice bright room, explain things like SUV's, five-hour traffic jams, twelve-lane highways, Tony Robbins seminars, thinking outside the box, cold beer, Starbucks, the lack of a metric system, cable modems, the Mall of America, the deep sociological reasons why everyone was doing that irritating "Wassup?" thing for awhile there, the inexplicable appeal of the Backstreet Boys---American culture in general, knowhutImsayin?" He stopped at the blank look on Ron's face. 

"I never left the picturesque village of Ottery St. Catchpole until I was eleven years old," the redhead said in a pitiful tone of voice. 

"You'll catch on," said Butch kindly, patting Ron's arm in a reassuring manner. "You shouldn't eat the tray, though."

"Oh." Ron started spitting chunks of plastic out of his mouth. "I didn't even realize I was doing it." 

"There's a Gluttony charm over everything in every McDonald's, you just don't have any resistance to it yet. Ronald McDonald's a dark wizard, ya know? He was brought up on charges of chicken torture last year, but he pled corporate immunity." Butch shrugged. "He was sentenced to thirty seconds of community service along with the bookkeeper of Enron. I think they picked up a paper cup together in a parking lot in Beverley Hills." 

"I'm glad Voldemort isn't here," Ron said faintly. Somehow, for some reason, saying the name of the Dark Lord didn't seem nearly so frightening with bright sunlight spilling through the windows and Britney Spears blaring from the speakers of a 1964 Mustang in the parking lot. 

Butch nodded. "Yeah, he'd probably write a bestseller, make an exercise video, and guest on Howard Stern."

"It's good to talk to someone who understands." Ron looked at Butch approvingly. The American wizard was tall, dark, and bulging with muscles, wearing an L.A. Lakers jersey and basketball shoes, his kinky hair cropped into a flattop. _A manly looking sort of man, _he mused. _Now that's what I like to see. Not like all these poofters. I'll bet they were looking at me and plotting how they'd like to get me alone and do all sorts of unspeakable things to me and--_

He jumped as Butch snapped his fingers an inch from his nose. "Hey! Earth to Ron!"

"What?"

"You were drooling."

"Oh. Sorry," Ron mumbled. 

"What _were_ you thinking about?"

"Wonder how much further we have to go?" asked Ron, moved by a sudden desire to change the subject. 

"Couldn't tell you, but five people in a Honda Civic--" Butch shook his head. "I'd rather have season tickets to the Cubs."

"It wouldn't be so bad," said Ron, "except that one of them is the embodiment of evil. And he won't stay on his side of the seat." He shivered. "Thank God I got rid of him for an afternoon anyway."

"Ohh, I get it. The blond," Butch said.

"Yeah, Draco Malfoy-- say, d'you reckon I should steal the silverware wherever we eat dinner and sleep with a butter knife? I need some sort of protection. I'm sure he's going to stand over me while I'm asleep and start breathing in my ear until I wake up and then he's going to jump on me and--"

"Doubt it," said Butch with a funny smile. 

"You're right, too many witnesses, maybe he'll lock Ginny and Hermione out of the room and then throw off his robes to reveal a leather bondage outfit and start twirling the fur-lined handcuffs around his forefinger and come strolling towards me where I'm backed up against the king-sized vibrating bed and--" Ron began to get a rather crazed look in his eyes. 

"Ron!" Butch brought his hand down on the table with a sharp slap. "I think you oughta be a lot more worried about-- what was his name, Drac?-- being in the same building as your sister. They're both over at Sister Innocenza's House of Style getting makeovers right now."

"Why would I worry about Malfoy and my sister?" asked Ron. 

Butch rolled his eyes. "Didn't they have _any _Sex Ed classes at that school of yours?"

"Yes," said Ron defensively. "Of course, the fact that Snape taught them put a lot of students off sex for life, but we did have it. I know that when a house elf and a grindylow love each other very, very much-- well, never mind that now--"

"So why aren't you worried about Sis and Drac-boy?" Butch asked patiently. 

"Because Malfoy is obviously a flaming queen as bent as a used paper clip! If he was any more gay, he'd be forced to star in the Covent Garden revival of 'Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.' He couldn't have less interest in Ginny. Well, apart from the pathological-hatred-for-all-Weasleys thing. No, I'm the one in danger. I know what I'll do! I'll keep a can of petrol and a book of matches by my bedside tonight! That's what I'll do! And if he moves so much as one long, slender, perfect white finger in my direction, I'll--" 

""Ron," interrupted Butch, "there's something you need to know. I've won the West L.A.'s Best Gaydar Award three years in a row now, against some pretty stiff competition. And when I met that boy, I didn't feel so much as a twinge."

"How would you know?" Ron asked suspiciously. "You're obviously not gay."

Butch sighed. "Kid, I'm as queer as a three-dollar bill."

"You can't be," Ron said in horror, backing away from the table and nearly stumbling over his chair. "You don't swish! You don't have a limp wrist! You know all about American football teams!"

"Those are gay stereotypes, sometimes true, sometimes not. They have nothing to do with sexual preference."

"But--" Ron grasped at a straw. "But you're nothing like those other wizards at the beach!"

"It's part of our contract," said Butch. "At any given time, a certain number of gay wizards and witches in L.A. have to be either over-the-top queers or stone butch lesbians. It's pretty fucking tedious, to tell you the truth. If there's anything I can't stand, it's having to wear a pushup bra--"

But it was too late. Ron had fled. Butch shook his head, sighing. He'd just been about to give Ron the pamphlet entitled _So Your Unnecessarily Extreme Homophobia is Starting to Make You Think That You May Be a Gay Teenage Wizard. _

Todd stared at Hermione's hair as she sat in a chair in the mirrored salon. At the best of times, it was bushy, but it now resembled caramel-colored kudzu. Half of it had coiled up like rusted wire and was springing out in all directions, and the other half had frizzed up into alarmingly cotton-candy like bunches. "Honey, are you having a bad hair day?" he finally asked in kindly tones. 

"I think I'm having a bad hair _life_," said Hermione in a muffled voice. The hair was threatening to take over most of her face, and only a vague outline of her lips could be seen. Todd shook his head at the sight. 

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. But it's not beyond hope, baby, not beyond hope." He picked through a shelf of jars and bottles. "Mmmm... let's see here... there's the old standbys, nothing like 'Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific!' shampoo, too bad they don't make it anymore, but it's a good thing they never made a feminine hygiene product-- I think we'll try the Voodoo line." Todd approached her with an armload of haircare products piled so high that he couldn't be seen behind it, and she sighed, leaned her head back over the sink, and gave herself up for lost. 

"Got a new CD in," said Todd chattily, shampooing Hermione. "All duets by Kylie Minogue and Madonna, made especially for the wizarding market. Listen to the new single, it's called 'I Can't Get You Out Of My Pants.'"

"_Look_ at this _hair_!" chirped a hairdresser on the other side of the room, fingering Ginny's long strawberry blonde locks. "To die for. Why did you have it all screwed up into an awful bun like that?"

"I usually try to squish it into the smallest space possible," said Ginny in a tiny voice. 

"And those_ eyes_!" He gently pulled the horn-rimmed glasses from her face. "You need contacts, honey."

"Oh, I don't need them. I just wear them so that people don't look at me," she whispered. 

"And look at her face, Kevyn Aucoin would just _die_-- oops, sorry, baby!" The assistant hairdresser patted Todd on the shoulder. 

"I'm still wearing black, Clique," he said dolefully. 

Hermione turned her head to look at Ginny. "I never really noticed," she said. "Ginny stares at her shoes most of the time." 

"And those--" Clique took up a handful of Ginny's patched black robes in one perfectly manicured hand, and words apparently failed him. "_Things_. Oh dear." 

Ginny sniffed miserably. 

"Cheer up," Clique said kindly. "You're like a beautiful butterfly ready to come out of her cocoon and spread her wings for the world!" He assumed a dramatic pose, then studied Ginny thoughtfully. "So what do look do you think, Todd? Moulin Rouge Retro or parachute silk skirts?" 

"You're such a drama queen, Clique-- Out, foul demon!" A whole section of Hermione's hair reared up and snarled, and Todd slapped it down with a generous application of styling lotion. "Out out out!" The hair whimpered, expired, and lay obediently flat. 

"My head feels so much lighter," said Hermione wonderingly. 

Todd shrugged. "It's been possessed by an Malus Capillus demon for years. That's been your problem all along. They congregate in bathrooms that don't have enough conditioner and straightening balm."

"At Hogwarts, we all had to use pieces cut off from a big bar of lye soap."

"Well, that's your problem then, baby. And now for a new 'do!" 

Hermione groaned and surrendered herself to the hair dryer, seeing Ginny's white, frightened face out of the corner of her eye as Clique approached her friend with a pair of trimming shears, cooing, "Now this won't hurt a bit if you just sit still!"

Ron crept around the edge of the hot pink building and peered into a window. He saw his sister and Hermione both sitting under what looked like medieval torture devices fitted to their heads. But Malfoy wasn't in the room, so he hurriedly passed on. In the second window, he could only see a group of wizards gathered around something-- or someone-- in front of a set of standing mirrors. He squinted at the sight briefly and nearly moved on when one of them shifted position, and Ron clearly saw a flash of light blond hair. Aha! Obviously some sort of dressing room. He settled into a comfortable position, making sure that he had a clear view of Draco Malfoy, who was bound to be in a semi-nude state. Purely for observational purposes, of course. 

"I don't know," said David musingly, positioning the blond Slytherin this way and that in front of the mirrors. "Is it all too Helmut Lang for words?"

"I'm never wearing those damned robes again," purred Draco, looking at his open-collared black silk neo-Nehru jacket, black silk pants, and black patent leather shoes. 

"Hmmm. Hmmm..." David scrutinized Draco from all angles and waved his wand. The black silks were replaced by extremely tight, artistically distressed leather pants. 

Across the room, a hairdresser's assistant gave a little moan and crumpled to the floor in a faint. Draco looked up curiously when he heard the crash. "That's the third time that's happened today; what's going on?"

"Never mind." The fashion consultant flapped a hand in the general direction of a lycra-clad elf, who levitated the fallen wizard and wafted his out the door. "He's driving through the Mojave desert, David."

"They're dead sexy," Draco said wistfully. 

_"_It was a hundred and twenty degrees in Needles yesterday. He_ can't_ wear leather pants. He'll _die_."

"But he'll leave a good-looking corpse, Chique," David pointed out. 

Chique rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Lord give me patience. It's better to look good than to feel good, but there are limits. Let's try this."

The pants and jacket vanished in a puff of smoke, to be replaced by a suspiciously tight-fitting policeman's outfit. 

"Uh... what's this?" Draco asked dubiously. 

"_No_, Chique," said David. 

"Or this?" With another puff of smoke, Draco was suddenly wearing a sleeveless plaid shirt, an extremely tight pair of blue jeans with a broad leather belt, and a yellow hardhat. 

"_Not _the construction worker, Chique!"

"Well, what about this?" Puff. Draco looked down at his chest with a startled yelp. It was covered with silver chains, and he now wore a studded sleeveless leather jacket, studded cuffs at his wrists, a leather hat, and... ah, the leather pants seemed to be back. 

"_Really_, Chique! _Leatherman_?" David glared. "Are you planning to go through_ all _the Village People?"

"Oh, all right!" snapped Chique. "Once again, my creativity is being stifled." He waved his wand with an extremely miffed expression.

Draco slowly turned from side to side, admiring his own reflection. He was wearing a crisp yet soft white button-down shirt of fine Egyptian cotton, white cotton plus fours, and Manalo shoes that had probably cost about a hundred dollars per inch. And a silver Rolex, of course. 

"It's the 'anyone for tennis' look," David said thoughtfully. 

"But he can pull it off. He's got that to-the-manor-born thing going for him," Chique pointed out. 

"You're right."

"As usual. Now, Drac--"

Draco winced. "My name is _not _Drac," he said. 

"It isn't?" asked Chique. "What is it?"

"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

"Whatever. Now, Draco--"

"I don't think you quite understand. People don't call me by my first name. "

"Is this one of those bizarre English things, like whipping in exclusive boys' schools while the students say 'thank you, sir, may I have another'?" 

"I give up," said Draco with a sigh. "Call me whatever you like."

"Just don't call me late for Diva a Go-Go night at Club Chute!" chorused a set of voices from the door. 

"'Lo, Miss Bianca, Miss Rita, Miss Sandita," said Chique, putting the finishing touches to Draco's hair. "I want a lock of it to fall over his eyes just so-- is that color natural? It must be. I _hate_ him," he said in a confidential tones. "Anyone with natural blond hair, I _absolutely_ hate. Isn't he _delicious_?"

Draco blinked. "I'm more accustomed to people hating me because I'm in the service of evil."

"Evil, shmevil. So--" Chique raised an eyebrow wickedly. "Coming down to Club Chute tonight?" The bevy of drag queens in the hall giggled. 

"I don't think so, we have to leave right after this-- we're trying to find this tiresome prat Harry Potter who always runs about saving the world, you know."

"You don't even have time for a little bitty visit?"

"Well, personally, I couldn't care less if he stays lost and gets eaten by dragons. But Ginny would be quite upset," said Draco. 

"The redhead? She's sweet," said Chique. "Nice to see you taking a brotherly interest in her."

Draco smirked. "That's not what I'd call it."

"Uh-- say what?" Chique asked cautiously. 

"If I could just get her away from that moronic brother of hers," drawled Draco, "I would shag her so senseless--"

Gasps filled the air. They were so loud that no-one noticed the muffled crash outside as Ron fell off the window ledge in horror. The redhead scrambled to his feet and pressed his nose to the window. 

"I think we're having a little misunderstanding here," said David. "Aren't you gay?"

"What?" Draco stared at him. "Of course not."

"But that's impossible!" said Chique, seemingly on the verge of tears. "You have platinum blond hair and a fashion sense! You've _got_ to be gay!"

Draco shrugged. "I'm afraid I'm not. Wait a moment-- you mean you've been thinking that all this time?" His question was greeted by vigorous nods. "Oh..." he groaned, pressing his hands against his forehead. "Oh no... has_ everyone_ been thinking that all this time?"

"Well, anyone with a room temperature I.Q.," said Chique. 

"That explains everything," Draco said miserably. "The way Oliver Wood kept patting my behind every time Gryffindor beat us at Quidditch! The way Justin Finch-Fletchley kept sending me boxes of Honeydukes chocolate with little pink hearts all over them! The way Marcus Flint always dropped quills on the floor in front of me and then asked me to pick them up! Even the way Voldemort asked me repeatedly if I wore briefs or boxers... What am I going to _do_?"

"Well, you could always--" Chique began hopefully. 

Draco cut him off with a dismissive wave of his freshly manicured hand. "No, I couldn't."

"You know," said Chique, "sometimes if a boy's extremely homophobic, it actually means that he's secretly gay. I'm sure I saw a study in Cosmopolitan that proved it."

"But I'm not," said Draco. "You can be as queer as you like, it doesn't matter to me. I was raised to believe in the equality of all sexual preferences-- so long as the people involved are filthy rich, pureblooded, and devoted to the dark side, of course. I simply don't swing that way myself." 

"He really _is_ straight," Chique said dolefully. 

David patted him on the back. "After a few dozen tequila body shots licked off Butch's inner thigh, you won't care anymore, hon. Come on. Let's take him to see Ginny." 

They turned and left the room without a backward glance. If they had looked in the direction of the window, they might have seen Ron rising to his feet and walking to the front door of Sister Innocenza's House of Style, a gleam in his eyes to rival the maddened irritation Ray Park always felt after spending too many hours in Darth Maul makeup. 

Got epics? Well, why not try "Jewel of the Harem," my loooooong fic spanning Scotland, Turkey, Germany, and four hundred years of D/G goodness. Find it at: 

http://www.schnoogle.com/authorLinks/Anise/

And if you'd like to be on my mailing list, be sure to tell me in your review!


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